


Old ships under new stars

by salytierra (octavaluna)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Analysis, Cultural References, F/M, Historical Accuracy, I may be back into hetalia but I'm still above using citrics as rating measures, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Romantic Fluff, warnings and pairing information before every chapter!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7091128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octavaluna/pseuds/salytierra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Oh how the mighty have fallen. For better or worse"</i><br/>A series of unrelated aph drabbles mostly revolving around Spain, his life and relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Contrasts

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting these on tumblr as I'm writing them, but also want to keep an archive here, just in case ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: spain/england. A character and relationship study.  
> Fluff, abstraction and implied sexual content.

 

They used to be so alike forever ago. Now, Arthur can’t help but wonder how the new millennia shaped them to be opposite enough to fuel a chemical reaction, brighter than the first spark of a nuclear blast.

Antonio comes from the soft music of a seven-string guitar, picking up the rhythm until the dance breaks with the intensity of the august sun. He’s golden and full of contained energy, passionate about everything and everyone he comes in contact with. His are the warm waves of the mediterranean under the full moon, the light-heartedness only a good glass of wine can bring and the smell of oranges. His eyes are the colour of the forests covering his northern mountains and his hair is like the soil of the olive farms in the south. He dances like he was born for it and laughs with his whole body, lips stretched around white teeth. He is aggressive in the best of ways, fiery like a wild cat. Never stand between him and his food or insult his football teams, but he’ll forgive you literally anything else. Welcoming and magnetic, his only presence makes you believe life was made to be enjoyed. This is Spain for you, and it’s impossible not to fall in love with him. Makes you wonder why is he so lonely.

Arthur’s eyes are the color of the fresh moss that grows under his never-ending rains. He owns the patent for sarcasm and can make you feel inferior just with the right press of his lips. Elegance and soft finesse clash under his skin with the blinding rage of the electric guitars and the screams of a music as violent as the storm he holds inside. He’s the land of contrasts; the drive of youth and the wisdom of an old man. Ruthless and selfish but bursting with love and devotion. An isolated recluse with the strongest friendship in recorded history that barely tolerates his kin but keeps his children close. Cruel and gentle. You are never free of him, never far enough, never out of his sight. He is as unpredictable as his weather, steely like his skies and efficient like his spies. Lion and King. England, the country of magic and science, that nobody trusts but everybody looks up to.

When they fall into bed together the sheets always end up in shreds. There’s no need to be gentle, to pretend, to hold back or slow down. There’s animalistic need in there and something even more primal, so basic and undeniable that neither of them can put a name to. Almost like a reaction chain at a cellular level that flares up at the first brush of fingertips.

They are like frost and fire, like rain and dust. Sweetness and the bitter tang of time underneath. There’s an endless swarm of possibilities between them, ranging from a mutually assured destruction to a union that could create something greater than anything ever seen before.

Or maybe…

Or maybe it’s just their egos speaking, the ghost of a grandeur long past, and they are just two men exploring each other for the thousandth time. There’s too much in there to tell, too little to be sure of.

And if something their long lives have taught them, it’s that history is a mysterious mistress, and it’s easier to follow her whims than try to bend her to your will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider commenting and/or leaving kudos. They are wonderful ao3 features that feed the writer's starving soul  
> [You can also find these on my tumblr](http://salytierra.tumblr.com/tagged/or%3A-spuk-fanfic)♥


	2. a game of change and time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the infinity of the sea used to mean freedom for them, today it’s the roaring engines of a plane and the, so very finite, vastness of the sky, what brings them together at the blink of an eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Saint George 2016 event at @spukdays  
> so obviously: spain/england
> 
> For the sake of the story imagine Antonio had the privilege of not traveling exclusively in bi-annual fleet convoys, but had his own schedule.

 

 

Somewhere along the line It became a game.

Out in the high sea, where there were no courts, no nations, no kings or queens, no law to respect but their own. Out there they could allow themselves to breathe out of sync from their real bodies; masses of ground and water and human heartbeats piled into one cacophony of distant sounds in the back of their brains. In the sea they were the closest they would ever get to the fleeting experience of human condition.

After all, while on dry land the nobles were roaring in frustration over continuous pirate attacks, a thousand leagues away Antonio just laughed and mentally chalked up another point in Arthur’s column, already plotting his revenge, fingertips tingling at the challenge.

Because it was difficult not to surrender to the temptation of that game of tag, to the thrill of the chase.

British pirates regularly took their chances on Spanish galleons - sometimes successfully, sometimes not - but Arthur made sure only his Albion could board whatever ship had the insignia of the bull wavering under the imperial merchant flag. What can he say? He’s always been greedy and possessive.

Oh, how very possessive.

Back then Spain was vastly different from the happy-go-lucky and welcoming man he’s today, but there was a cheerful beauty in that version of him too. Arthur had never met someone so power hungry and vibrant. Antonio sung and danced with a battle axe or a sword in his hands instead of a guitar and the fire in his eyes could set the entire fleet ablaze.

Arthur however, gave back as good as he took. He was lighter on his feet, fast and precise as an arrow, but at the same time wild in such a primitive way that all inhibitions crumbled to dust around the planes of his body. The two of them clashed with the passion and devotion of a pair of hunter beasts, or a couple of lovers.

There were others too, of course. French filibusters that were stupid enough to butt in between the two and serve as an aperitif before the main course. Or deliberately oblivious Portuguese, that calmly sailed around, protected by a dozen different treaties. They weren’t worth an ounce of attention from the two countries a soon as their eyes met.

It went like this; Arthur would attack Antonio and it either ended with one of the two ships sinking and their treasures, maps and crew, including captains and representatives, fished out and thrown in holding cells, or one tripulation capturing the other ship and awaiting for a rebellion or juicy rescue offers from their lands.

It was during one of such times when Arthur took their ritual to the next level. Antonio had come up to where his rival was tied to the mastil, a bottle of wine in hand and the sunset behind his back. Arthur looked up at him from under his eyelashes and curved his bruised lips into a sly smile. “Perhaps, Don Fernández, I could offer something else in exchange for my freedom this time.” The naked lust pooling in his eyes leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Of course Antonio took the deal and then didn’t stick to his end of the bargain, but then again, Arthur never expected him to.

So the next time he came victorious Arthur ignored the gold of the booty and just threw Antonio over his shoulder, carrying him into the captain’s cabin and locking them in between sweaty sheets and kiss-muffled cries until his second mate came to warn him of three Spanish battleships approaching rather quickly. Which meant dumping Spain (who needed a bath anyway) and the surviving members of his tripulation overboard and running away like devil got their pants on fire.  

It was the most fun he’s ever had.

But like all the best things in life, it couldn’t last for long. Soon enough the politics of dry land spread to the seas and they had to become the personification of their countries again. Their amicably rivalry and animalistic attraction became bitter hate, and the sex stopped when it started to feel more about domination than lust, neither wanting to soil the memory of those precious times with the worst and the darkest a resentful heart could offer.

Time flew by. Britain became more powerful and watched Spain grow tired and apathetic. He never looked at the sea with wonder anymore, never fought like it was a dance rather than something that made his stomach turn.

October 1805 was the moment everybody started to speak out loud what the world already silently knew for decades. Spain was done for, and Britain never had been more powerful. Yet there was relief in Antonio’s eyes after Trafalgar and after overthrowing the Napoleonic invasion. Maybe there could finally be peace?

If only their lives were so simple!

But everything comes to an end. The two world wars and the Spanish Civil War changed both of them respectively. More than centuries of armed conflicts ever could before. They changed their people, the way humanity thought and felt, what they treasured most.

Forgive and forget, and hold dear what brings you joy. A new mantra for a new era, new ideals of global cooperation, tolerance and altruism.

But the memories remained. Wrapped around the kernel of that something that had raged between them in other times but never went away completely. Dormant inside the ribcage, away from the easily-scarred skin and torn flesh, until the sun could shine steadily and strongly enough for it to crawl back out and shake off the heavy mantle of sleep.

They don’t smell of salt and gunpowder anymore and there’s no winnings or losses to keep track of, only three hours from an English house in the outskirts of London to a particular doorstep in Barcelona.

It’s the day of love for the city, and the scent of roses lingers heavily in the air.

Antonio dances with castanets cupped in his hands instead of sword grips, at the sound of somebody’s music filtering through the window.  Arthur watches the shift of muscles under the skin of his naked shoulders, and the elegant swirl of his hips, from the heap of crumpled sheets and pillows, humming along to the chorus of the song.

And knows that even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to stop smiling. Because every time their eyes meet Arthur can see in Antonio’s gaze the passion and the fire that reminds him of that time, long, long ago, when they were almost as happy as they are now.


	3. Quicksand calendars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duality of looking like a young man but carrying the weight of a very long history on one’s shoulders. What is vanity if not a desperate attempt to cling to the little pride a fallen empire has left?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A character building exercise highlighting the key points of how I write modern-day Spain. Written while listening to Fall Out Boy on a transcontinental flight and edited listening to 1492 by Vangelis.
> 
> Pairings: very casual Spabel, vague mention of past SpAus

 

Youth is the most precious gift to mankind. Not only because of the fresh looks and good health, but also because of the innocence that clashes with a revolutionary mind, precious ignorance clouding the untamed emergency of critical thinking and an idealistic heart that refuses to believe in fairy tales but still, somewhere down there, does.

Antonio slips into his leather shoes, the last touch to this night's ensemble. The slight raise of the Cuban heel adds to his height and lifts his thighs; a drop of style masking his overall complex as one of the shortest countries in Europe. But who needs these extra centimetres when you look like a million bucks?

He checks himself out in the full body mirror installed into the door of his wardrobe. Silky, slightly messed-up hair and a handsome face with olive skin and plump lips; a dark wine shirt hugging the muscles of his shoulders and chest; tight jeans accentuating his legs and what he's been told repeatedly is his best feature: his world-famous ass. He keeps himself in good shape, both because he enjoys the exercise and because the healthy Mediterranean diet is a big part of his identity and lifestyle. But mostly, he's well aware that in the absence of military power and political influence his good looks and boyish charm are the only features keeping him noticeable and liked. He may be only known as one of the most visited and welcoming nations in this new, hedonistic age, but at least _he’s_ _known for something_.

There's an element of strategy to his apparently harmless vanity that many overlook. They've gotten used to it - to overlooking his intelligence. Spain's just a pretty boy that smiles like he swallowed the sun and makes silly puns in inappropriate moments. Who cares that he'd ruled the world once, right?

The confident smirk falls out of his face as Antonio approaches the mirror, almost touching it with the tip of his nose. He squints at his reflection and runs a finger over the delicate net of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. They are barely noticeable, but he'd been contemplating to start covering them with make-up lately. Keeps forgetting to buy it, though. No anti-ageing cream will work on them, as his physical aspect does not necessarily depend on biology; neither does the occasional grey hair that he finds at his temples or his chest. He gets rid of each one-by-one but knows that they just will keep showing up.

From a public distance he looks like twenty five through twenty eight, depending on the day, but from up close his age ascends to thirty-something. Not bad, actually, just the peak of a man's attractiveness. Young enough to be vigorous and fit but projecting the experience necessary to drive any partner wild in bed.

The only problem are his eyes. Within the fresh greenery lays the heaviness of an old man's gaze. Those are the eyes that had lived three hundred lifetimes, seen many unimaginable horrors, cried into hands covered in blood, condoned the worst of sins and enjoyed another few. There's deepness to them, the wisdom of a prophet and the revealing sharpness of a master strategist; the coldness of a soldier and the warmth of a distant father that has seen his children grow to become men and women of their own right way too fast for his liking. The traces of pain from all the times he ripped himself apart during his civil wars and the fear of standing too often at the edge of death. These are the eyes of a man that had too much and lost it all, the eyes of a man that had loved through the centuries and that had never gotten over a heartbreak that once shook the world but that nowadays is only seldom mentioned in history textbooks.

His eyes reveal who he really is: an outdated ship lost in the middle of an unfamiliar sea. With every compass broken and unable to find his way under the foreign stars, but still keeping his sails fully unfolded, preening with the flags dancing in the wind; trusting in God and luck to guide him to a friendly shore.

A voice from the guest room brings him out of his reverie and a few seconds later Belgium pokes in, circling on other heels to show off the tight dress that brings out her curves and leaves just the right amount to the imagination.

Antonio is quick to erase any sign of pensiveness from his face, expressing his approval with a sultry smile, almost blinding in its intensity and only a tiny bit fake. He still catches a sliver of understanding in her eyes, however. She knows what has been going through his head a second ago, mostly due to personal experience but also to a piercing sharpness that doesn't match at all the stereotypical picture of a bubbly blonde that she tries so hard to project.

But they don't talk about it, they never do. They are going to have fun today, dance and drink and either meet interesting people to spend the night with or come back home and stumble into bed together. In any case, Antonio is getting drunk and laid today, which is nice but certainly does not produce in him the enthusiasm it would in a real tween. Just a pleasant routine, the upside of this crazy new century.

She is ready to go, and so is he.

Grabbing his keys, phone and wallet, Spain shots one last glance at the mirror, meeting his own gaze as it weights down on him with the load of his history.

He looks like twenty eight, but feels like all of his 2300.


	4. to love and to be in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old spaport drabble that I just found again and wanted to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Spain/Portugal. A study in character and relationship.   
> Warning: obvious sibling incest

 

[SPAIN’S POV]

 

_It’s ridiculously easy, to love him nowadays._

It is so, that sometimes Antonio forgets that he really does. It’s easy to get caught up in the frantic, never ending spiral of modern life and develop a tunnel vision, focusing on the problems and the apparent, only, solutions. It’s easy to keep your eye on the troublemakers and those who shout louder rather than look around and remember what’s important.

Antonio sits carefully on the bed, smiling softly at the figure of his brother, asleep between the first morning sunrays.

_You truly are beautiful._ He thinks, stricken for a thousandth time by the realization that he’d forgotten, yet again, how breathtaking Portugal can be. When their kind looks at each other they don’t just see a pretty face. It always lurks there, in the corner of the eye, the understanding that the person in front of them is so much more than a normal being. Focus on the eyes and you’ll see the lakes and seas or the mountain hills covered by deep forest. Kiss their lips to get a taste of the centuries of tradition, listen to their voice to hear their people live and dance and sing the songs straight from their heartbeat. Every single detail, every hair strand and mannerism has a meaning.

Antonio remembers being a child, running free between the tall grass blades, chasing the soles of his brother’s robe, being awestruck, adoring him already, in his most recent memories. He remembers looking up at Lusitania, desperate to catch his attention, to be loved. That impulse never really went away, and through the centuries it remained at the core of their dynamics.

Spain has always loved Portugal somehow. That steady, eternal warmth of affection had walked with him through the highest and the lowest points in their relationship. The difference relied in what accompanied it. There had always been either an “and” or a “but”.

_“I love you and I like it when you hold me close.”_

_“I love you, but right now I want to punch you.”_

Sometimes, both at the same time…

_“I love you and I desire you. But if you give me the chance, I’ll strangle you with my own hands.”_

No, better thought, loving him has never been the issue. The problems came from being  _in love_  with him. Which Spain not always is, but often enough to develop behavioral patterns. It’s a vicious circle. Sometimes that flame burns just enough to make Antonio excited at the prospect of spending some time together. Sometimes it rages like a fiery fire, oppressive, all-consuming to the point well past a simple obsession. A possessive desire to be the only one for his beloved, to be the center of his universe, to make him his.

Portugal usually has something to say about that though. And Spain enjoys the spark of defiance, pride and glory in his eyes too much to ever even try to extinguish it.

_“Never doubt my love for you, but never trust my allegiance either.”_ Lusitania had told him once, when they were still children, and made good of that promise over and over again in the millennia to come.

So Antonio leans over Portugal’s body, kissing feathery-light first his eyelids and then that adorable beauty mark.

“Good morning, sunshine.” He whispers with a goofy smile. It’s warm and comfortable, the familiar feeling of falling a little bit in love again. This is going to be one of the good times, he thinks, meeting the other’s sleepy gaze.

 

[PORTUGAL’S POV]

_How the fuck did that lunatic break into my house again?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He’ll need twenty minutes and a cup of coffee before he remembers that he gave Toño the keys for emergencies. And another ten before he notices the smitten smile on the idiot’s face and goes like “oh damn, there we go again…”


	5. Dreams of memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Spaport drabble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Spain/Portugal  
> Warnings: sibling incest and sexual references (but nothing on-screen)
> 
> I wrote this for an ask when I still couldn't decide for a name for Portugal. I found my perfect porto-name since then tho, so I'm taking the opportunity of uploading this to change it and correct some grammar.

 

Portugal woke up way too early, with the dull feeling of another country’s presence in the back of his mind. Managing a moment of concentration he quickly identified it, falling back into the cushions with a disgruntled “oufff”. However, now that he was awake, he became aware of the annoying beam of sunlight hitting him straight in the face. 

Sighing, he crawled out of his room and followed the sound of snickering into the living room. 

“What are you doing here so early?” He mumbled, even though what came out was more like a “waaarrm ruuuunn ii so elii”. Spain understood him anyway though, tilting his head over the back of the sofa with an upside-down smile. 

“It’s already mid day, sleepyhead.” He turned around a bit waving the TV remote around. “It was gonna be a boring day anyways, so here I am.” 

Oh, so only because the dumbass didn’t have anything better to occupy his time with, he had to break into Henrique's house to watch cartoons? Sounded exactly like something Spain would do. 

Rounding the sofa, Port sunk down into the cushions by his side, yawning. He stared at some random point between the TV and the kitchen door, almost missing Antonio’s cheerful “Thought we could have some brotherly bonding time today.” 

Well, that was vague as fuck. Antonio’s understanding of “brotherly bonding time” stretched from a five minute phone call once a month to activities that were banned in half the world and, hopefully, didn’t fall under the umbrella of anything fraternal for anyone else in the universe. 

“U woke m up” he mumbled, letting his body slid sideways into waiting arms, that enveloped him on their way to a horizontal position on the sofa. Well, if anything, Antonio’s chest made for a decent, warm pillow. 

 _I better not find any towels missing later._ Was the last thing he thought and, chances are, Spain somehow read his mind, because Henrique fell asleep to a mischievous grin pressed against his temple. 

* * *

 

He dreamt of waking up in Antonio’s embrace. 

In a luxurious bed covered with furs and a canopy adorned in gold. He dreamt of a tiny sliver of doubt and an ache in his chest that made him push the other man down and kiss him deeply and passionately, hands roaming over the naked planes of his body. 

“What is it with you today?” Spain had said, breaking the kiss to take Rique's face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over the wetness in the corners of his eyes.

“Nothing.” Henrique assured him, kissing his palms. “I just love you.”

“You always loved me.” Antonio reflected, raising one eyebrow. “And you always will love me, no matter what, I know that. But loving me never prevented you in the past from turning your back at me or drawing your sword through my chest.”

Portugal frowned, leaning away. “Like you are one to talk.” 

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything, merely stating a fact. I love you too, and what’s more important: I know you. Your open affection always comes with a twist.” 

“Maybe I’m just being attentive towards my beloved little brother, whom I barely see now with all this warfare going on.”

“Maybe you are planning on leaving him soon.”

They held their eye contact for about ten seconds before Portugal huffed, pushing Spain away and sitting up to face the window on his other side. “Not yet. But keep taking me for granted and using me like I’m yours, and we will see what happens.”

“You _are_ mine.” Antonio growled, grabbing his wrist to force him to turn around. “But I never took you for granted and if there’s one thing you can’t accuse me of, is of deluding myself into thinking you’ll remain mine forever.” He kept his hold strong as Henrique tugged to get his arm back but his eyes softened as he leaned forward, nuzzling his brother's neck. “You are too proud, too independent for that, my love. But don’t make the mistake of believing that I’ll let you go without a fight either.”

Portugal looked at him from under his eyelashes. “I’d be offended if you did.” He hated Spain’s possessive and arrogant attitude towards their union, hated that the other kingdom thought he had any right over him. However, ironically enough, he also felt a twisted sort of egotistical pride from knowing he was desired to the point of obsession.

“When are you leaving?” He asked, kissing Spain’s cheek. 

“Soon. I have to be back with the unit in a couple of days, and so do you.” 

Henique nodded, falling back on the pillows and shifting his legs to accommodate his lover’s frame. “A little parting gift.” He said with a sly smile “You better put some effort into it. Who knows if it will be our last time in a long, long while.”  

It had been. The last time they had touched each other's skin in decades to come. On that early autumnal morning of 1640, the remains of which stretched through many centuries of reminiscence. 

* * *

 

When Rique woke up for real it was because of the unpleasant sensation of overheat. Somehow during their nap they had changed positions, so now he had a gently snoring Spaniard draped half over him like a 70kg electric blanket.

Shrugging off the memory he took a moment to reposition his mind in the present, in a time of effortless peace and meaningless diplomacy. 

“Hey, move over.” He grumbled, pushing at Spain’s body, who just mumbled something and cuddled up tighter in his sleep. Henrique sighed and, actually putting some force into it, unceremoniously pushed the man away, who woke up on his way to the floor. 

“Sorry, sorry. ” Portugal apologized, not really feeling sorry at all and smirking at the betrayed pout his little brother was giving him. 

Still, he bent down to peck his lips and then his forehead, ruffling Antonio’s hair before sitting up. “As an apology, I’ll let you choose what to make us for lunch.”

“Shouldn’t you be the one to cook, since I’m the guest?” Spain asked, rubbing his bruised butt. 

“You invited yourself, so now work for your stay.” 

“Why did I decide to waste my time with you today?” Antonio complained. And okay, he was joking, but it strung a nerve anyway. As little as Henrique had liked to be treated like property by that man, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that Antonio sometimes forgot about his existence these days either. 

 _Make up your mind._  He chastised himself, standing up and catching Spain’s wrist in a firm grip. 

“Quique wha…  _mmmppf- oh._ ” Antonio breathed out, blinking dazedly as Portugal broke the kiss he had initiated himself.

“Just for this time, let’s cook together.” He beckoned, starting to walk away, in the direction of the kitchen. “And you better stay the evening too. I just decided we’ve got plans for it. Plans that include whipped cream and using that hideous tie you gave me last Christmas as a blindfold.” 

“Woah…  _Wow!_ Okaay!” Spain cheered, noticeably more excited, and following after him like a puppy wagging its tail.

Henrique just smirked to himself.

_Yup. Still got it._

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider commenting and/or leaving kudos. They are wonderful ao3 features that feed the writer's starving soul  
> [You can also find these on my tumblr](http://salytierra.tumblr.com/tagged/read+on+tumblr)♥


End file.
